In the heat of Cordoba
the blur of boundaries wafts
clouds like censer.
I enter an archway, a thrumming
la Mezquita-Catedral in my
hands. They reverberate
with hymns that harmonize the
call to Islam in whole notes.
Here, I’ll lay
the pads of fingers gently on a
pew, the walnut
edge worn with confession,
I imagine them heartbeats.
He stands by me silently in the
of the qibla. Ten steps make a
between us, setecientos años,
inside rows of black and ox
arching half-moon over half-
Inquisición, las Santas Cruzadas.
roars, full-throated hymns and the
holds it vibrating: por absolución
God willing. Inshallah.
The architecture is bleeding. We
timelines by the children of the
of their children playing in the
The toddlers chase each other and
from stained glass windows,
magic, wings of refraction,
in the same courtyard where